Last night got cold. I had to close all the downstairs windows, and I’m glad I did because it’s been raining all morning, and the house has a sweatshirt worthy damp chill even with the windows closed. Henry is quick to go out and quicker to come back inside.

When I was a kid, a rainy Saturday ruined the whole week. It meant staying inside and trying to find ways to entertain myself. TV helped fill the time. I watched all the Saturday programs. Later, if I had a book, I’d hide in my bedroom away from the noise of kids stuck inside and read.

It’s a rainy day, and I have fallen into old habits. I’m watching TV to pass the time, and I’ve started a book by Harlan Coben, Don’t Let Go. I bought the hardcover at last week’s farmer’s market. It was a dollar. I’ve already gotten more than my money’s worth.

I have all sorts of collections. I have hats. They are on a hat tree, a real tree in the guest room, and on the bookcase here in the den. Some of the hats are old. One is a red Panama hat I bought in Ecuador in the 70’s. All the women there wear a similar hat. I have an old navy hat and an old army hat. I have my ancient brownie beret and a boy scout hat. I have a brown fedora which reminds me of my dad who wore one to work all the time I was growing up. One of the hats was worn for Easter by my sister when she was young. It is a pill box with flowers on the top and a ribbon and bow. The ribbon hangs down in the back. Three of my hats are from Ghana. A red fez reminds me of Doctor Who. The bowler is like the one John Steed used to wear on The Avengers. The band hat has a plume. A soft brown woman’s hat has feathers. It looks like the sort of hat worn to complement horse riding garb. The train ticket collector’s hat is blue. I have a wide brim pink hat. It is one of my favorites.

What is ironic here is I don’t wear hats. I just collect them.

I haven’t bought a hat for a while, but that doesn’t mean I’ve given up hats. I am just getting choosier.

Coffee is late today because I had PT, my last but one, and a blood test. Before I left for my appointments, I was busy picking up the pieces of flower pots which had fallen and broken during the short rainstorm we had last night. I would have liked more rain, but I did love the wind. It kept the house cool.

I have finally brought my laundry upstairs. It sat in the drier for more than a week. Part of the reason I didn’t get it was I had left mouse traps around the cellar, and I was afraid they’d be dead mice. There were none.

Today is as pretty a day as any. The sun is shining, the deep blue sky is cloudless and there is a strong breeze keeping the heat at bay. It is 76˚. I have a few flowers to pot, and I want to change my bed, the only items on my to-do list.

When I was a kid, my mother pretty much made meals she knew we’d eat. We weren’t big on vegetables except corn, peas and mashed potatoes. My mother, however, was quite clever with vegetables. She used to mash carrots and mix them with the potato. I always wondered about the orange in my mashed potatoes, but I never asked. I just ate the potatoes. They tasted fine to me.

Somewhere along the line I came to love a variety of vegetables. Count me in as a turnip fan. Cabbage is another. I sometimes buy a small head and cook it as a vegetable. I slather butter on it. Butternut squash is my favorite in the squash family followed by acorn squash. I don’t like yellow summer squash and I’m iffy on zucchini, unless it’s zucchini bread. I prefer broccoli and spinach uncooked in salads. Celery is a lot of work for nothing.

Some vegetables are really fruits like the tomato, the avocado and strangely enough string beans. In Ghana I ate okra for the first time. I liked it. It too is a fruit. I was taken aback. I would have bet the ranch that they were vegetables.

This is my annual Father’s Day post. Many of you read it every year. It is about my amazing father, my funny and loving father. This morning, as soon as I woke up, I wished him a Happy Father’s Day.

In my front garden are a couple of ground cover plants. They have been there for years. My father planted them for me. One weekend he and my mother came down to visit. My dad brought his lawn mower, a hand mower, garden tools and those few plants. While my mother and I shopped, my dad mowed the lawn in the front and the back. Both yards were fields no longer. He weeded the garden. I could see the flowers. The garden was lovely. I get to remember that weekend every time I go out the front gate and see my father’s plants. They touch my heart.

This is my annual Father’s Day post. It brings back a rush of memories every time I read it. It makes me smile and long for my father. He was one of a kind in the best of all possible ways.

I have so many memories of growing up, of family trips and my dad trying to whack at us from the front seat and never succeeding, of playing whist in the kitchen, with the teams being my mom and me against my dad and brother, of Sunday rides, of going to the drive-in and the beach and of being loved by my dad. Memories of my dad are with me always, but today my memories are all of my dad, and my heart is filled to the brim with missing him. When I close my eyes, I see him so clearly.

On a warm day so he’d be sitting on the front steps with his coffee cup beside him while reading the paper. He’d have on a white t-shirt and maybe his blue shorts. He’d wave at the neighbors going by in their cars. They all knew him and would honk back. He loved being retired, and we were glad he had a few years of just enjoying life.

He was the funniest guy, mostly on purpose but lots of times by happenstance. We used to have Dad stories, all those times when we roared and he had no idea why. He used to laugh along with us and ask, “What did I say? What did I say?” We were usually laughing too hard to tell him. He was a good sport about it.

I know you’ve heard this before, but it is one of my favorite Dad stories. He, my mom and I were in Portugal. I was driving. My dad was beside me. On the road, we had passed many piggyback tandem trucks, all hauling several truck loads behind them. On the back of the last truck was always the sign Vehiculo Longo. We came out of a gas station behind one of those. My father nonchalantly noted, “That guy Longo owns a lot of trucks.” I was laughing so hard I could barely drive and my mother, in the back seat, was doubled over in laughter.

My father wasn’t at all handy around the house. Putting up outside lights once, he gave himself a shock which knocked him off his step-ladder. He once sawed himself out of a tree by sitting on the wrong end of the limb. The bookcase he built in the cellar had two shelves, one on the floor and the other too high to use. He said it was lack of wood. When painting the house once, the ladder started to slide, but he stayed on his rung anyway with brush in hand. The stroke of the paint on the house followed the path of his fall. Lots of times he set his shoe or pant leg on fire when he was barbecuing. He was a big believer in lots of charcoal lighter fluid.

My father loved games, mostly cards. We played cribbage all the time, and I loved making fun of his loses, especially if I skunked him. When he won, it was superb playing. When I won, it was luck. I remember so many nights of all of us, including aunts and uncles, crowding around the kitchen table playing cards, especially hi-lo jack. He loved to win and we loved lording it over him when he lost.

My father was a most successful businessman. He was hired to turn a company around and he did. He was personable and funny and remembered everyone’s names. Nobody turned him down.

My father always went out Sunday mornings for the paper and for donuts. He never remembered what kind of donut I like. His favorite was plain. He’d make Sunday breakfast when I visited: bacon, eggs and toast. I can still see him standing over the stove with a dish towel over his shoulders. He always put me in charge of the toast.

If I ever needed anything, I knew I could call my father. He was generous. When we went out to eat, he always wanted to pay and was indignant when we one upped him by setting it up ahead of time that one of us paid. One Christmas he gave us all $500.00, not as a gift but to buy gifts.

My father left us when he was far too young. It was sudden. He had a heart attack. I had spoken with him just the day before. It was pouring that day, and I told him how my dog Shauna was soaked. He loved that dog and told me to wipe his baby off. I still remember that whole conversation. I still miss my father every day.

This has already been a productive morning. I went to the opening of the farmer’s market. First I went to the ATM and then spent almost all the money at the market. By the time I was done, my Bolga market basket was filled with bread, honey, tomatoes, a few small pots of herbs and a coffee-coconut sort of skin cream. Before I bought it, the woman gave me a sniff-it was all I needed. I was their very first customer ever they told me.

Last night was so cold so I had to shut the windows. When I woke up, the house still had a bit of that chill, and here in the den is the last of it. The day dawned absolutely beautiful. The high for today should be in the mid-70’s, and the temperature is almost there now.

My street is quiet right now. I have no idea where all the kids are. There are nine of them 12 and under. When I was a kid, our neighborhood was never quiet. You could hear kids yelling at one another, and mothers yelling at kids. Fathers never yelled out the back door.

The back door was where all the communication took place. Kids went inside and the door slammed behind them. Mothers yelled don’t slam the door. Kids yelled back that the door slammed itself. At lunch time, mothers yelled for kids from each of their back doors. It was a cacophony of mothers. By supper time, kids were inside watching TV. Outside sounds disappeared when it got dark. In the summer, through the screen windows, you could hear the TV’s. If you stood outside and looked in, you could see the flickering black and white screens of those TV’s.

I can hear my neighbors some nights. The sounds seem to travel. One neighbor down the end of the street has quite the laugh, and I hear when he finds something entertaining. On my movie nights, I wonder how far the dialogue travels as I have the audio as high as it can go, but no neighbors have complained. I’m thinking they are being good neighbors.

I do have to buy a few things, coffee being number one on my list, but I’ll wait until the late afternoon. In between, I’m going to sit on the deck and read. I think it a perfect plan for today!

I woke to the sound of rain, a gentle rain. I could even hear the individual drops falling on the leaves. I wanted to stay in bed, comfy and warm, but Henry had other ideas. He ran downstairs, and I had to follow to let him out. The rain has since stopped leaving a damp, dark, cold day. We’re back to sweatshirt weather.

The other day I lived through the first plague. When I got into my car, it was filled with flies. Some were in the back on the window, some were on the front console and a few were at the side windows. I started opening windows and waving the newspaper. A few flies left immediately. Others took a while, and yesterday, a day after the plague, a few were still in the car, but I think they have all since flown to freedom. I have a guess as to where they came from. Last week, if you recall, one of my trash bags had some maggots. I thought I got them all when I was at the dump. Obviously I hadn’t.

When I was a kid, very little scared me. I didn’t mind spiders or most bugs. I remember watching a praying mantis for a long time. It fascinated me. Darning needles were another bug I loved to watch. They flew back and forth just like sewing needles moved. We told my little sister they could sew lips together. She believed us. It wasn’t until I was older I found out they are also called dragonflies.

My father was a mighty hunter. On hot summer nights with his chosen weapon in hand, a rolled up newspaper, my father hunted mosquitos. I remember him standing on my bed walking back and forth while trying to kill the ones on the ceiling. Every room in our house had blotches on the ceiling, testaments to my father’s prowess with a rolled newspaper.

When I was in Africa, I saw a centipede. I didn’t get too close, but I watched for a long time. The centipede was quick, and its legs moved in all different directions in sort of a timing pattern. It was mesmerizing. The other neat insects I saw were a parade of ants. They walked in a wide swath. I remember putting a leaf in the middle, and a bunch of them grabbed onto the leaf and it moved up the column. That column of ants was so long I had to jump over it to get to my training student teaching class.

The only thing only dance card today is the first play of the season at the Cape Playhouse.   Until then, I’ll just hang around, read a bit and eat some more Necco tropical wafers. That’s more than enough to make me content.

The morning is perfectly lovely with a bit of a chill left over from last night. The birds are active, and they keep flying to the feeders which are near empty. I’ve put filling them on my to-do list. I  stayed on the deck for a while watching Henry. The air is filled with the scent of flowers and the smell of the newly laid mulch in the different front gardens. The mulch smells of earth and wood. It is a dark mulch in contrast to the flowers. It will get warmer, as high as 77˚,  but will drop down to the 50’s tonight, perfect for sleeping. If I had my druthers, every summer day would be like today.

My wild rose bush has bloomed. The white flowers appeared this morning. There are about four or five of them around my yard. They climb and some of one bush in the front is up a pine tree.

Every now and then I need chocolate and lately I have been on a Clark Bar binge. I usually buy one or sometimes two at the store. They are conveniently placed near the cash register. I actually have a 24 bar box of Clark Bars which I bought when the future of Necco was in doubt. I won’t open it because I know that will be the end of my Clark Bars. One will do if I buy it but one won’t do with a boxful. The flesh is weak.

When I was a kid, I was content with penny candy. I had my favorites. They were mostly chewy like Mary Janes, Tootsie Rolls, Squirrel Nut Zippers and Banana Splits because they lasted longer. Once I sneaked some Banana Splits into school and popped one into my mouth. The nun called on me. I had to spit the candy into my hand disguised as a cough. I did eat it later.

My mother made the best brownies, delicious brownies full of chocolate. She never used a box. She used to frost them with chocolate and then put jimmies on the top. They never lasted too long in our house.

My father loved chocolate pie. I used to make him one every time my parents visited. He didn’t want to share. He claimed I made it for him so he didn’t have to share. He’d pretty much finish that whole pie before he left.

My father used to hide his candy under the couch. I don’t know whom he was hiding it from as everybody knew where it was. We were all adults by then but not above stealing some of that candy. He was big on Hershey Miniatures and M&M’s.

He also loved truffles, and I used to give him some every year either for Father’s Day or his birthday. Those he never shared.

This morning is cloudy, damp and chilly, but the forecast is for a mix of sun and clouds. Right now, though, the clouds are holding sway. I’m rooting for the sun.

Huzzah! My laundry is in the washing machine, at least half of it is. It sat by the cellar door for a long time, but I needed clean underwear so I brought the laundry bags down to the cellar, to the washing machine. I just heard the buzz: first load done and ready for the dryer. It isn’t so much I hate doing laundry. I just load one machine then the other. I just don’t love folding and getting the laundry up two floors is a pain. The solution, of course, is to do the laundry more often so I’ll have less of it to haul, but that doesn’t appeal to me.

When I went to the cellar, I found evidence of cellar mice, but I have traps I’ll set. That got to me thinking that a few creatures might have found their way up here so I’ll also set my Have-a-Heart trap.

This morning I stood on the deck and watched Henry. He does his business close to the driveway and seldom ventures further into the yard. I watched him run circles around a few trees before he decided he was ready to come inside. I saw a chipmunk running up the driveway and escaping under the fence. The male cardinal visited. He is around most days and occasionally stops to eat. I also saw the red squirrel. It was among the missing until last week. I watched it jump from limb to limb on the tallest pine tree in the yard. The red spawn is smaller and much more agile than the grey spawns but no less annoying.

My new front plants are now in the ground. My landscaper planted them early this morning. He also put my paper on the step. A few empty spots in the garden are still catching my eye. I’ll have to plant quickly as the mulch is coming, the last step for this years’s garden.

I have four flags in my front yard, three big, one small. The small one is by the front door. It has the beach, a starfish and some shells. It says welcome. My American flag is in a holder attached to the house. It is my fourth flag in that spot. On a tree in the front are the two other flags. One is a Peace Corps flag. The other is a white flag with a big pineapple in the middle. In Colonial times, the pineapple represented hospitality. Some of the old captain’s houses even have pineapple door knockers. I love pineapple. It is either my first or second favorite fruit. It alternates with coconut.

Living in Ghana was like living in fruit heaven. I ate a bowl of fruit every day for lunch, the perfect meal in the heat of the afternoon. The bowl was filled with oranges, mangoes, bananas, pawpaw if it was in season, and pineapple chunks. I savored every bite.